


The Drive

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Stark Ranch [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BUT FIRST WE SLOW BURN, Cowboy Porn That Developed Feelings Goddamnit, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Discipline, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, I Mean A Lot of Sex, Lots of Sex in Future Chapters, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, The Death is Ben, Warning: Betas Reported Crying, When I Say Lots of Sex, alternate universe - cowboys, grief is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Okay.  So, hear me out.This was supposed to be a quick one-shot where I shoved the people in the Marvel Cinematic Universe onto horses and made them wear cowboy hats for porn, but I'm over 50K in and I love these stupid cowboys, and the first chapter made me cry, so.  Now it's a series.  I'm not going to apologize.Okay, fine.  One sorry.  Just one.S--s---s--low burn is liiiiiife.Ha ha!Anyway, I'll try to put a cowboy hat on everyone you love and rope 'em all in.  Polyamorous smut incoming, WATCH THEM TAGS, FOLKSHere, have some first words:“So, you remember me talking to Ben about my cousin’s kid, Harley?” asks John.Peter doesn’t.He shakes his head.“Yeah, I didn’t know.  He had- troubles- too, and needed someplace to go to work off some of his mad, his energy, learn how to, well-  How to process things,” says John, clearly a little uncomfortable.Peter scowls.  “What, are you committing me?”There’s silence.Oh, God.
Relationships: Ben Parker/May Parker (Spider-Man), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stark Ranch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893331
Comments: 54
Kudos: 89





	The Drive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imwithtony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imwithtony/gifts).



> First off, let's hear it for the people who gave me the prompt, who WILL BE GIFTED FUTURE FICS WHEN THERE IS FLAME:  
> khory, who has the spiciest gifs  
> Annalyn, who encourages the best  
> personaljunkdrawer, who is as filthy as she is talented, which is a staggering amount, really
> 
> For iamwithtony, or Peter Is A Twink Fight Me on Tumblr, for the moodboard which was just *chef kiss* perfect, and came at just the right time to knock me right off my smut and into an ocean of feelings 
> 
> For my cheerreaders, Livvibee and personaljunkdrawer, for telling me it's not shit, I should not delete it
> 
> Beta'd by the Supreme Team of jf4m and mindwiped.
> 
> All remaining errors are mine.

[ ](https://starker-rays.tumblr.com/post/626538789328781312/cowboy-tony-and-his-ranch-hand-peter-in-new-mexico)

Ben’s _pissed_ , and it’s not like Peter can even be pissed back, because Ben’s _right_ , he’s always right, and Peter’s just been so damn dumb again.

For someone who goes to a fancy genius high school and who has already been accepted to Mensa, Peter is so damn dumb sometimes.

_Fuck._

Ben turns the car on and says, quietly, in that disappointed tone of voice, “We’re going to talk, May and I, and I hope we can come up with a solution for all this.”

“Uncle Ben, I-“ begins Peter, heart in his throat.

“No, Peter,” interrupts Ben, his eyes kind but implacable. “Not this time. This is too much, too far. You’re gonna kill yourself, chasing adrenaline thrills. And I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch you end up like your parents.”

Peter gasps, tears filling his eyes, the words ringing in his ears, _end up like your parents_. Ben reaches over and pulls Peter’s seatbelt on, like he used to do when Peter was a child. Ben is nothing but firm kindness, even when he’s incandescent with anger, shock, and disappointment, and somehow that makes it even _worse_.

Peter glares out the window at the streets and alleys of New York as they drive by.

“Is it steroids, Petey?” asks Ben quietly.

“What?! No!” Yelps Peter. “No! I, uh, I think, I think it’s-“

“Mutation?” asks Ben, and they’ve had that talk, with the mutant registration act on TV, that he and May will love Peter no matter what, that nothing will change, even if Peter spouts claws or laser vision or starts reading their minds. As long as he doesn’t _hide_ it from them. _Just tell us, Peter, we’ll help. We’ll understand_.

Just another thing he’s fucked up.

Peter’s voice quavers as he mutters, “I got- there was this spider at, uh, OsCorp, and it bit me, it was, uh, genetically engineered, and I think it, um, affected my DNA.”

“Peter that is the most ridiculous, clap-trap cover-up story I’ve ever heard in my life,” Uncle Ben says firmly. “Try again.”

“No, Ben, it’s- remember, they let me in to see the Neogenic Recombinator demonstration, with Dr. Stillwell? Because of, uh, my project for the Young Geniuses program?” says Peter, his voice faltering and choking because Ben has never scoffed at him and called him a liar before. Never. “And then, as a, like, a special thank you, he knew- my name- he knew who dad was, and let me see his old lab, and the one remaining- the spider, you know? That dad-”

“I’m aware,” said Uncle Ben gruffly.

“Well, and so it’s the last one, apparently every generation produced fewer and fewer viable offspring, the numbers are- but they let me hold it and it, uh, bit me. And then, uh, I got sick, remember?” pleads Peter desperately. Uncle Ben stares straight forward. Peter swallows. “And when I was, um, done being sick, I was, uh, enhanced.” Yeah, that’s the word Ned used. _Enhanced._ Not mutated. “Like, uh, Captain America,” tries Peter.

Uncle Ben snorts. “Not likely. Catch Captain America beating up jerks for money.”

“The army paid him,” says Peter stiffly, glaring out of the window.

“If those jerks in that building were Nazis, or, or that Hydra that’s been on the news, I’d let it pass, Peter,” Uncle Ben informs him bluntly. “Did they look like Nazis, or just punks to you?”

“Just punks,” mutters Peter, picking at a hole in his costume leg with a nervous finger.

“Gonna end up like Richie, despite all my efforts,” grumbles Uncle Ben, suddenly hitting the steering wheel and making Peter jump. “Despite all that I’ve _tried_ -” Uncle Ben’s voice chokes and Peter feels the hot fall of tears on his cheeks. 

He knows Uncle Ben has tried.

God. He _knows_.

He tries to cry quietly for the rest of the ride. Well, no, he tries not to cry at all, but he’s not used to letting them down, and whenever he thinks about _that_ , about all they’ve done for him and sacrificed for him, well. At least he can grab for some dignity and do it quietly.

“Just like your parents,” sighs Uncle Ben, as he parks the car. “Well, get out, let’s go wake your aunt and tell her what a damn fool you’ve been tonight. See if she believes the spider-bit-me, maybe-they-were-Nazis defense.”

Peter unclicks his belt and wipes his face. She won’t, he already knows it. She won’t.

~~~

She doesn’t.

Ben and May fight a lot in the week after that night. Ben and May fight quietly, and Peter stays in his room, quietly, and the whole house is so quiet he can hear himself breathing weirdly, the sounds hoarse and raspy, painful to hear. Even more painful to experience, his chest so tight with worry about _what they’re thinking_ that he can’t think straight, himself.

And then, Ben’s shot.

And it’s all Peter’s fault. He wasn’t there- he didn’t- he couldn’t save him. 

Aunt May, well, she falls apart. Peter tries, he- he’s drowning, too, but he tries. But just like Uncle Ben trying with Peter, it’s not- it’s not enough. They need money, and so Peter goes back, back to the cage and the fighting. Funerals cost money and he’s just like his parents, in the end. Even though Uncle Ben _tried_.

He comes home after school, walking past the familiar blue Mazda in the driveway, to John Keener sitting at the table, Uncle Ben’s best friend. Peter knows John Keener like he knows Susan Harding, Aunt May’s best friend. They take fishing trips together and John loved playing legos with Peter, still gets him a new kit every birthday. It’s not unusual for him to be sitting at the kitchen table. What’s unusual is that Uncle Ben isn’t there, sitting with him, the two of them laughing and throwing puns back and forth.

“Peter,” says John, his face grave and lined with what Peter now recognizes as the deep lines of loss and grief. “Peter, we have to have a talk, kid.”

Peter feels fear like a glowing rock in the pit of his stomach. “Wh-what about?” he asks warily, sitting in the chair John pulls out for him.

“Peter, May can’t- she called me, said you’ve been sneaking out, getting into trouble, and she can’t- Petey-” _that’s Uncle Ben’s nickname_ , thinks Peter angrily, fingers tracing the dent in the table where his seventh grade science fair project had, uh, projected, “- she can’t handle that, on top of everything else.”

“We need the money,” says Peter, but his voice breaks on the last word.

“Yeah, whatever you’re doing at midnight, your aunt doesn’t need _that_ money,” says John, and his voice is so _kind_ it makes Peter’s throat close. “She doesn’t need that hassle, whatever it is you’re doing, it probably isn’t legal, is it, kiddo?”

Peter scowls at the tabletop, his cheeks flushing. “‘M not a kid,” he argues hotly, flashing a quick glare up at John’s familiar face.

“No, and I’m sorry to contradict you on this one. You _are_ , Peter. You’re just a kid, still,” says John, leaning forward.

“I’m _not_ ,” asserts Peter. “I can- I’ll be able to vote, soon.”

“Age doesn’t matter s’much as smarts and maturity, Petey,” says John. “You think it’s smart and mature to sneak out in the middle of the night and go do- whatever- and leave your aunt with a wad of cash she has to figure out what to do with? On top of just- just living life without Ben?”

Life without Ben.

Peter can feel the tears, hot, trapped inside. He gasps and says, angrily, “What the _fuck_ do you care?”

“I do care,” says John quietly. Him and Ben, always the quiet ones, always so damn superior and smug and- and- _good_ and- and- if Uncle Ben had been less _good_ maybe he wouldn’t have interrupted the fucking creep trying to rob that lady and he’d still be _here_. “I do care, Petey, and so does May. She’s made a hard decision today, but I agree it’s for the best.”

“Don’t make any decisions while you’re grieving, you’ll regret them,” quotes Peter in a sneer. Fuck, he _hates_ counseling.

“Yeah, but life doesn’t stop, not even for death,” says John gently. “And you’re too important, Peter, to all of us.”

Peter flinches.

“So, you remember me talking to Ben about my cousin’s kid, Harley?” asks John.

Peter doesn’t.

He shakes his head.

“Yeah, I didn’t know. He had- troubles- too, and needed someplace to go to work off some of his mad, his energy, learn how to, well- How to process things,” says John, clearly a little uncomfortable.

Peter scowls. “What, are you _committing_ me?”

There’s silence.

Oh, God.

“You are?” he asks, shocked, his eyes flying up to John’s face.

“Nothing like that,” says John, finally. “There’s a ranch, it’s a good place, lots of fresh air and hard work, and you need that right now, Petey, need to work off some of that excess energy you got burning you up on the inside.”

“I can join football,” promises Peter rashly, his eyes glued to John’s kind, solemn face. “I- I can- track, whatever, I can-”

“Yeah, well, the other part is it’s not _here_ , with whatever trouble you’ve got yourself into,” says John slowly. He raises a hand as Peter splutters out a protest that he can stop _that_ , too. “It’s done, Peter. It’s decided.”

“And May just- just _what-_ left you to _tell_ me?!” shrieks Peter, panic flowing through his whole body.

“Your Aunt May is with my Sarah, right now, Peter, and she’s as worn through as a person can be, I have no idea how she’s gotten out of bed the last week,” says John, his southern accent coming out thickly, reminding Peter of all the times he’d listened to John and Ben talk late into the night through the registers of the house, John’s accent getting thicker and thicker as the talk got more and more serious. “We’ll take care of her, get her back on her feet, that’s what friends are for, in life. But she can’t handle you right now.”

“Can’t _handle_ me,” whispers Peter, and then he puts his head down on the table, on top of his crossed arms, because it’s _John_. He called the man Unc’a John for years. John and Ben taught him how to fix his bike when he was five- there’s photos of it- and that led to fixing robotics at fifteen, and that led to the You Can Built It: Young Geniuses grant and now Uncle John is saying that he has to take care of May and they can’t- _won’t_ \- _handle_ Peter, too.

 _Handle_ him.

“May can’t afford this house,” says John quietly, and everything and everyone has been so quiet in Peter’s life since the night Ben found him. So quiet and so painful. “So she’ll come live with us while it sells. We got her a storage unit, by us, just down the street, and we’ll look for an- an apartment, Petey, for both of you. But for the next few months-“

“Months?!” cries Peter, banging his head on his arms.

“... just the next couple,” says John. “You’ll be better off far away from all this trouble. Harley loves it out there, wouldn’t come home, earns his keep and gets good grades, and it’s been good for him, the whole family agrees.”

“I’m not Harley,” says Peter in a choked voice. “I’m _Peter_. I’m- I’m-“

What he is gets lost in the first sob. And forgotten by the fifth, and then John’s strong arms wrap around him and tug him close, muttering, “That’s it, Peter, let it out, son.” 

But Peter Parker isn’t John Keener’s son. He’s a dead man’s son. And Peter Parker doesn’t have a whole family to say anything has been good for him, he has Aunt May, who is so worn out from _handling_ him that she’s got to be taken care of by friends.

Because Peter’s just like his parents. He’s not good, like Uncle Ben was good. Uncle Ben, who tried-

“Shhh, Petey,” sighs John. “I got you, kiddo. Just a coupla months, give us all some breathing room, give you a break, too.”

Honestly, a break sounds good to Peter. He nods into John’s hard shoulder, and is grateful when the man doesn’t let go, just holds him, and lets him cry. 

~~~

Peter stares at his bed, which has already been stripped of bedding, and at the suitcase on top. There’s a note, a folded piece of printer paper with Aunt May’s handwriting and he can’t- she didn’t even have the energy to see him, to say goodbye to him, how worn out _is_ she?- he can’t read it. He shoves it in a side pocket and looks around.

His stuff is tidied, and there are boxes everywhere, labeled with Sarah’s careful block print _Peter-Bedroom_. His posters still cover the walls, and his awards, and his models and his- Peter swallows. He remembers moving into this house, just a kid, lonely, frightened, and Uncle Ben saying, “Well, when your daddy gets back, we can take the posters down, Petey, but I like the idea of all these superheroes keepin’ an eye on your dreams for me. Whaddya say, Petey?”

“Sounds good, Unca Ben,” Peter whispers to the silent room. He hefts the suitcase- light, now, in arms enhanced by the spider- and turns away, and tries not to feel like he’s fleeing.

But maybe that’s just one more way that he’s _just_ _like_ _his_ _parents_.

They fled, too, and just like Peter, they left the most important things behind them.

~~~

It’s already starting to get dark when they start out, but that’s fine with Peter. John made him grab the pillow off his bed and the quilt, too, so he shoves the pillow against the window and covers himself with the quilt, shutting his eyes and shutting out the whole world, too.

They drive for hours, until John’s too tired, and then they stop at a motel, and Peter falls onto the bed, so tired he’s dizzy with it.

He wakes up hours later to John, sliding back the covers and crawling into the bed beside him, shushing him, wrapping his arms around Peter. He’s crying, he realizes, half-awake. Crying again, in his sleep, crying because- because Ben’s not there. May can’t _handle_ him and Ben’s not there, and May needs Ben and Peter needs Ben and- “Shhh, Petey,” murmurs John. “Just sleep. Just sleep, Petey. I’ll be right here, son.”

It makes him cry even harder, then, because he isn’t _anyone’s_ son, and being sent out to this farm? That _proves_ it.

He clings to John, in the night or the early morning, whenever, wherever they are, and cries himself back to sleep.

~~~

The next day, John wakes him with a careful hand on his shoulder, jiggling Peter awake. “C’mon, Petey,” he says. “Up and at ‘em. Got a long day of driving in front of us. You okay to take the wheel for some of it?”

Peter nods, his eyelids sandpaper against his eyes as he blinks them open.

“Go get washed up,” John tells him.

It’s an easy direction, in this directionless world, where everything he decides for himself is wrong.

Peter follows it. And he follows the next one, to eat, and then the next one, to pull out of the hotel parking lot and turn left.

Aunt May’s letter stays in the pocket, in the suitcase in the back of the car, in the suitcase when he hauls it into the next hotel room that night. 

He doesn’t want to read her excuses.

John doesn’t tell him he has to read it, either. Doesn’t ask about it, doesn’t talk about much, actually. Just sits in the seat beside Peter until Peter’s too tired to drive more, and then they switch and eat lunch, and then John drives, and Peter sleeps.

Peter’s so tired.

He could use a break.

They can’t find a radio station they like for the last long haul of the night, as the sky in front of them lights up reds and blues and purples, so they drive into the darkness in silence. Peter has no idea where they are, where they’re going. It’s all just highways and hills, with the occasional big city to navigate. Without John, he’d be completely lost.

That’s fine.

Ever since the night Ben found him, Peter’s been lost in the quiet all around him, anyway.

This isn’t much different.

John has to crawl into his bed that night, too, and wake him up to calm him down, wrap arms around him and tell him lies about how it’s better out than in.

Nothing’s better.

Nothing’s better the next day, either.

~~~

“Be there tomorrow,” says John the next night, brushing his teeth at the stained and cracked, cheap plastic bathroom sink. Peter nods, brushing his own teeth because that’s what he does- he follows John’s directions. 

They’ve stopped early, it’s not eleven at night yet. Peter can feel the twist in his stomach because he doesn’t know what that means, that they stopped early. He doesn’t know what it means that John took a room with just one bed, either.

“Come here,” says John, after they rinse their mouths. “C’mon, Petey, come sit with me, talk.”

Peter shakes his head, but John holds out a hand and so Peter walks with him back into the room, settles on the bed, his head on John’s shoulder, and breathes, low and slow, steady.

“It’s a hard enough age, anyway, almost being a man,” says John musingly, and Peter snorts. “I remember what it’s like,” John insists. 

“You- not like me,” mutters Peter.

“No, no, I had a daddy who I was busy fighting with,” chuckles John. God, Peter would kill for a dad to fight with. “Was too busy to get in trouble, do- whatever it is- that you do, makes you so twitchy, these last few months. Ben said that’s how he knew something was up, how you’d flinch at every noise, now, and I been seeing it, this whole trip. You on something, back in New York? Acid?”

Peter chokes and shakes his head, cheek rubbing against John’s shoulder. “No, just-” Ben had kept the spider a secret from his best friend, apparently, and so Peter will, too “- just jumpy. I’m- there’s- it wasn’t drugs.”

“Was it, uh, selling yourself?” asks John, and Peter can read the man’s sudden tension. “I know- Ben said- you were, uh-”

“Gay?” asks Peter. “Or, well, bisexual. Maybe-” he sighs, “maybe pansexual, I don’t know. I don’t- I’ve never- just messed around. But, no,” he answers, because the man hasn’t relaxed. “No, it wasn’t- I wasn’t a hooker.”

“That’s good,” says John carefully. 

“Yeah, thanks,” bites Peter, loading the word with as much sarcasm and sass as he can.

“Enough,” John tells him firmly. “I been worried. Ben was worried, you got us all worried and you won’t _talk_.”

“Ben knew what I was doing, he told me to stop, I stopped,” Peter tells him angrily, pressing one hand to his mouth tightly when he feels his stomach tremble and hears the tremble in his voice, too. 

“And when Ben died, you went right back,” John reminds him gently. He’s just like Ben, so gentle, so kind, so _good_.

Peter’s nothing like that. 

“Yes,” he says, hotly, shoving away, rolling over. “May needed money- she was so worried-”

“Not that kind of money,” John tells him again. “Just added to her worries, Petey.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” says Peter desperately, because it works for the school therapist.

It works for John, too. 

“Okay, Peter,” sighs John. “If it ain’t drugs and it ain’t selling yourself, it’s not the worst it could be.”

It was worse, thinks Peter bleakly. He had these powers, and he- he used them to beat up punks for _money_. Captain America wouldn’t do that. Captain America would save people. If he’d been around, he’d have saved that woman so Uncle Ben didn’t have to- have to-

“Shhh,” says John, “sorry, sorry, Peter, just had to check.”

He lets John lift him up, clings to John’s chest, and doesn’t answer any of John’s questions. He doesn’t answer any more questions, until John stops asking them, and lets Peter cry himself to sleep.

~~~

He wakes up in the morning, his throat raw and his nose stuffy, and John’s already moving around in the bathroom.

He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s not a _thought_ , really. It’s just a _feeling_. He thinks about how they’ll be at the ranch that afternoon, maybe, or maybe they’re closer, maybe that’s why they stopped early for the night, maybe they’re only minutes away. They’ll be at the ranch, soon, and then- and then John will leave and Peter will- 

He panics. He can recognize it, dimly, for what it is, but he can’t stop it. He panics, and he takes off, bare feet slipping on the worn-smooth carpet of the motel room floor, door crashing open as he opens it wildly.

John shouts from the bathroom, first in inquiry and then in alarm, but Peter can’t- he has to _keep going_. 

“Peter!” shouts John, but Peter’s _gone_.

~~~

John catches up to him, because there’s nothing, just the gas station and the diner and the motel, a couple of houses, a big farm supply store, and nothing, nothing for miles and miles, and Peter’s just running down the side of the road, anyway. Running, in his pajama bottoms and bare feet, running until he can’t breathe but he can _think_ again.

“Damn _fool_ ,” shouts John, pulling off and parking, leaving the car running. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and an expression full of fire and wrath. “What the _hell_ was that, Peter Parker?”

“I- I woulda come back,” Peter promises him, hands up defensively, not ready to stand up just yet. “I woulda- I just- I just-”

“Damn _fool_ ,” spits John again, grabbing him by the arm and shaking him. “Ran twelve miles, you know that? Twelve miles outta town, be your own fault if all your shit’s stolen because the door got left open.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbles, “I’m- I woulda come back, I woulda-”

“Damn straight you woulda come back,” John tells him, pulling him into a rough, tight hug, squeezing so hard Peter can feel his heart racing as well as hear it. “Damn straight.”

“Sorry,” mumbles Peter. “I just-”

“Ranch ain’t that bad, Petey,” John tells him, his voice aching and quiet, again, his arms strong, still pressing Peter tightly to his chest. “Just a coupla months. You can do it.”

“I-” gasps Peter, because, fuck, he’s crying again, he just realized, he’s _crying_.

“This is what I’m saying, though, Petey, she can’t handle what you need right now, you need- and they can give it to you, Harley’s mom swears by it, I promise Petey, I ain’t giving you to strangers,” John says.

Peter feels that lump of lead in his stomach again and stiffens. “Y-yeah,” he mumbles, and follows it with, “S-sorry, John. Sorry.”

“‘Bout gave me a heart attack,” John tells him, letting Peter wiggle out of his hold. “All I could think was, what was I gonna tell _May.”_

Peter can’t even imagine. “Well, now you don’t have to worry about that,” he tells John bluntly. In a few hours, the man won’t have to worry about anything. Peter and Peter’s _issues_ are all going to be someone else’s problem, someone else’s to _handle_. “I woulda come back, I just- needed to run,” he says.

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll stop us someplace that has a treadmill,” sighs John. 

“Yeah, next time,” agrees Peter bitterly.

“Get in the car. Buckle up,” John orders, and just like that, they’re back on solid ground again.

Peter follows the directions.

The ride back to the motel is quiet.

He has no idea where he is, but he’s pretty sure it’s not Kansas because there’s no cornfields. The thought makes one corner of his mouth twitch up before his throat chokes closed again.

Ben would have thought that was hilarious.

~~~

He’s drowsing, more than half-asleep against the pillow pressed to the window, when they turn off of one road to another road and then slow to a stop by a speaker. John rolls down the window and presses the button, declaring, “John Keener and Peter Parker.”

“Come right up, opening the gate now,” says a cheerful voice, as the metal gate does open silently.

They drive for ten minutes down the dusty lane as it winds through fields and then past storage sheds or- or maybe barns. There are cattle in the distance, Peter can see, and he thinks he spots a sheep or two on the hills behind the buildings. It’s a real ranch, a real- there are _tractors_ , Peter notes in a daze. He’s actually going to- John’s going to leave him _here_?

He checks his phone and isn’t particularly surprised to find there’s no signal, and five text messages from Ned that he hasn’t answered yet, the battery almost drained already.

“First I’ve seen you look alive,” grunts John. “Good sign, you ask me.”

Peter shakes his head. Nothing’s good anymore.

A man is standing on the incredibly big porch and waves them forward, along the circular drive. He shoos away what looks like a rowdy pack of dogs as John rolls down his window and drives forward slowly and carefully. “How’do?” he says in a pleasant southern drawl, when they pull to a stop. “Been watching for you. Name’s Jarvis, I keep the place for Mr. Stark, come on up to the main house.”

Peter climbs the porch steps one step behind John, trying not to look around and look _alive_. 

“This the new hired hand?” asks a female voice and Peter scowls. “Oooh, a feisty one,” she laughs. “They’ll like that, last two’ve been boring.”

“You stop,” says Jarvis reprovingly. “Darcy, you go on, now, leave him be.”

“Tell Steve I went to check on the hoppers, took Lucky,” she calls lightly.

Jarvis sighs. “Stay out of the _crick_ ,” he tells her loudly. 

“Ice’s broken up, no promises,” she calls back.

“Sorry, sir,” Jarvis says. “Right this way, there’s some paperwork-”

“I’m- May said- the man said May could take care of it all online-” stumbles John, for the first time, and Peter’s lips sneer without his conscious control. So May can _handle_ the paperwork to kick Peter out of her life, huh?

But his vicious anger only lasts a second before it’s swamped by the embarrassing memory of John’s car door flying open, his voice shouting _damn fool_ as he ran for Peter, huffing by the side of the road, one hand pressed to the stitch in his side. Peter’s turned out to be a handful, after all. Maybe he always was but no one knew it, because Ben- because Ben-

“Not that paperwork,” says Jarvis delicately. “That’s all in order. No, this is just receipt of items, things like that.”

They sit in the dark red leather chairs he gestures them toward, John first and then Peter, Peter’s eyes never lifting from the thick gold and red carpet, the dark wood of the huge desk in front of them. The chairs are uncomfortable, and Peter’s not surprised.

John looks over the file Jarvis hands him and makes little noises of understanding before he signs one page after another after the next.

Peter flinches when he hands the file in front of Peter to Jarvis.

“Well, would you like to see the bunk house he’s been assigned to?” offers Jarvis. “One of his counselor’s’ll be there, waiting, you can get him set up, ask any questions…?”

“Yes,” says John firmly. 

They walk out to the car, John and Jarvis talking about the weather and the farm in general, Peter silent between them, one step behind John. 

“Get in the back,” John tells Peter. Peter glares at the door handle but nods, sliding in silently, quietly. 

The ride isn’t quiet though, John and Jarvis keep talking, talking and talking and Peter struggles to breathe under all the talking they’re doing, about the crops and the horses, and the dogs that follow the car, barking loudly. Jarvis tells John where to turn, down another dirty path that’s full of potholes, and then says, “It’s called the A Tower, you’ll see, because Steve- that’s one of Peter’s counselors, you’ll see, he wanted his place to be an A frame, so we used to call them the main house and the A house, but that got confusing, and then, well, it’s a joke, that it’s the tower on the hill, d’ya get it?”

There’s silence and Peter sneers when John says politely, “Oh, sure.”   
  
He doesn’t get it, Peter’s sure of it, and he feels viciously satisfied when Jarvis’s voice is a little stressed, like he’s aware of the lie but doesn’t feel like it’s polite to point it out, as he continues, “We also got the X Mansion, which is that- you can see it, on your left, in the distance? Started with a T, and then they added it, and now it’s the X _Mansion_ , because it’s the next biggest bunkhouse outside of the main house. And if you look just past it, you can see the Number Four, which is just what we call it until we can think up a name for it, houses the Richards. Sue’s kid brother is about your age, Peter.”

It’s the first thing he’s said to try to draw Peter out, but Peter glowers at the back of the seat and doesn’t reply.

“Peter,” says John sharply. 

“What?” asks Peter. He can’t help it, it comes out angry.

“Sorry,” John apologizes and it burns down Peter’s spine, that John thinks he can- _should-_ has the _right-_ to apologize for Peter. It burns down Peter’s spine and twists his stomach into knots, but they’re stopping by the A Tower, then, and Jarvis is telling John to grab anything he packed for Peter.

Like Peter couldn’t pack his own bags. Like of course Peter didn’t pack them.

Well. 

He didn’t.

 _Point to Jarvis_ , thinks Peter with resignation, climbing out before John has to order him out.

He eyes up the strange, big, triangle-shaped house, with its whitewashed walls and wooden shingles, and his stomach sinks as a voice deep inside sneers, _home sweet home_. It doesn’t look anything like any place Peter’s ever thought of as home, before.

Jarvis holds open the door as John leads the way inside, turning once to glare at Peter.

 _Yeah, yeah, I’m following. No point in running, I already tried that. I didn’t get anywhere_ , thinks Peter. He takes deep, low breaths to press back the panic, this time, press it back and away, where he doesn’t have to feel it, or feel anything.

The walls are covered in rough sketches of flowers and horses and dogs and men and cowboy hats and boots and- and antlers. Lots of antlers. Antlers _everywhere_ , even in the lights. The walls are wood paneling, and there’s warm red tile on the floor, with rugs that are- Peter’s pretty sure they’re hides, not rugs- scattered under and in front of furniture. The furniture looks like rough wood, made of logs, but it’s shiny, like someone thought it was special and spent lots of time polishing it, and there’s pillows and cushions all over the place.

It’s all so cowboy and western that Peter hates it on sight. All of it. Everything.

And he has to live here.

In hicktown hillbilly hell.

_Fuck._

“Hey,” calls a voice with a familiar accent, very different from Jarvis’s polished southern drawled vowels, “are you John? This Peter?”

“Y-yeah,” says John, setting the bag down on the floor and extending a hand for a hearty-looking handshake. “He’s, uh-” he says quietly.

“Yeah, no, I understand,” says the man easily. Peter glares at the tiles because he sincerely doubts the man _could_ understand. “I’m Steve. I work here, one of the hired hands. Thanks, Jarvis, you good to wait around? He can drive you back to the main house on his way out, yeah?”

“Do you have orange juice? We’re all out,” answers Jarvis, before walking quickly further into the house, secure here in this space, as secure as he’d moved through the main house, as well.

“Help yourself,” calls Steve before inviting John, “Well, let me give you the ten-cent tour. This’s the ground floor, sitting room there, kitchen back in that corner, showers, bathrooms tucked over here on this side. Laundry in the mudroom out back, and then these stairs-” he begins to climb them, and John and therefore Peter trail behind him, “take us up a floor, to the first bedrooms, mine and Bucky’s, he’s the other hired hand here in this bunkhouse, and then, these stairs-” he keeps moving, quick and fast, like he’s got extra energy to spare “take us to the storage closet and my studio space, and that ladder there, up to the loft where the boy’s’ll be.”

“Boys?” asks John curiously, climbing up to peek his head above the floor line, and Peter peeks a glance to catch his reaction, which is a quick, cursory look around before nodding and climbing back down the ladder, offering it to Peter.

“Yeah, we all figured you’d feel better if you knew someone Peter was with, and Harley hasn’t had to share for a while, figured it’d be good for him, too,” says Steve.

Peter’s halfway up the ladder when he has to shut his eyes briefly, shut out the relief in John’s voice as he says, “Oh, that’s- that’s very thoughtful. That’s- I didn’t even think to _ask_. It _is_ a relief.”

The loft is just a space under the eaves, Peter realizes, with two dressers tucked against the triangular end wall, under the window. The left one is covered in junk, and the right is empty, bare. The pitch of the roof is so sharp, there’s probably twelve, fourteen feet in the center of the room, but it angles down until it meets the floor in a perfect triangle, tight, and thin. The center of the room has two thick mattresses, pressed together, with just enough room to walk on either side to reach the dressers. On the left side of the room, in the space where a person couldn’t stand, couldn’t even _kneel_ , is a lot of- of _stuff_. A jumble of junk and, and leather and Peter spies a baseball with a sneer. Cowboy shit.

He accidentally looks at Steve as he slides down the ladder and then he can’t look away. The man is- is-

Well, he’s tanned, and blonde, and his beard is trimmed tight, his blue eyes sparkling with good humor, letting Peter look. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt, tight across his chest, and it’s tucked neatly into a pair of jeans that look soft and worn in. He’s got a belt, a thick brown leather belt with a ridiculous buckle, some kind of scene on it, actual fucking cowboy boots on his feet.  
  
He looks like he stepped out of a cowboy calendar.

Peter’s cheeks are heated but he sneers. Hickbilly hellville, that’s where he’s being dropped. Actual people who dress and play like cowboys on calendars. Fuck. This is ridiculous.

“Hi, Peter,” says the cowboy, his eyes finding something humorous about this situation.

“Hi, Steve,” Peter sneers back, mocking him while jumping off of the last rung.

“Peter,” sighs John. “No need to-”

“Nah, John, ‘s’okay,” says Steve, in that warm Brooklyn accent Peter remembers from home. “He’s had a rough trip. He’s allowed a little bark.”

“Well,” sighs John, “I suppose you’d be used to it.”

“I am,” agrees Steve. “C’mon, let’s go get you back to Jarvis before the orange juice gets too warm and he kicks up a fuss.”

Peter realizes that he means that John should get ready to leave and his palms start to sweat.

“N-no,” he stutters, as John descends the staircase to the second floor and Steve follows behind him. “W-wait,” he says.

“C’mon, Peter,” Steve says airily. “You’ll find people don’t wait around here. Not when there’s the next thing that needs to get done and stock relying on you to get it done, anyway.”

Peter catches up before they cross to the next stairway, but he’s not fast enough to grab for John before Steve’s on the stair, too. He thinks about pushing his way past, but then considers the breadth of Steve’s shoulders and decides to just… just follow.

When his feet hit the first floor, though, he skitters past Steve’s bulk and slides to a stop in front of John. “Please, John,” he breathes. “Please, don’t- don’t-”

“You are gonna be just fine, Peter. Coupla months,” repeats John, firmly, a crooked smile crossing his face. _He doesn’t_ **_want_ ** _to leave me_ , thinks Peter wildly.  
  
“NO, John,” shouts Peter, grabbing onto John’s arm, clutching there. “Please, I’ll- I won’t be a problem, I promise, I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve listened, I _can_ do it, I’ll keep- I _promise_ , please, take me home, to May, we’ll- we’ll figure it out, _please_ , John.”

“This is why she couldn’t come,” John says to Steve politely, his face reddening, patting at Peter’s hand on his arm, pulling Peter into a hug. “We- we figured-”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” says Steve, with the same achingly overly polite tone, over Peter’s whispered pleading. “We get all types. Not the first one. I’ll let you know when he’s settled, sound good? And May can call on Sunday night.”

Sunday night. Sunday. What day is it? Peter’s heart is hammering so hard and his head hurts and his chest is tight- _how many days until Sunday?!_

“John, please,” he begs, voice choking, splitting the syllables. “Don’t- don’t _leave_ me.”

“You’ll do fine,” John tells him heartily, and then he pulls away, pulls back, letting go of Peter.

Peter stiffens, hurt, because he can see it, already, in the man’s eyes. John’s not going to stay, he’s already _left_. He didn’t drive three days to take Peter back home.  
  
Peter nods, then, and says, “I will,” as viciously as he can, as nastily. “I will, John, and I’ll _remember_.”

“You do that,” sighs John, scrubbing his face. “Yeah, let me know when he, uh, settles, and I’ll remind May about Sunday.”

“Safe travels,” says Steve, and then he steps forward with Peter, steps _past_ Peter, and steps in front of the door. “You leave him be,” he chides Peter. “He drove all this way for you. It’s hard enough on both of you, him driving home alone.”

“Hard on _him_ ,” chokes Peter, fists balling up before he remembers, remembers the sick crack of bones, from the cage. He stretches his fingers and shoots Steve a glare and sneers, “Hard on _him_ ,” again, because _this is Peter’s whole life_ they’re fucking with, out here in hicktown nowheresville, with fucking horses and sheep and dogs and a room Peter has to share with some fucked-up relative of John’s, who _isn’t even family_. 

“Yeah, hard on him,” says Steve, his chin coming up, jaw clenching, and his eyes sparking a little with a challenge. “You think it’s easy to leave a kid you love with a bunch of people you don’t know? Not see him again for months, worrying about him? Wondering if you-”

“ _Fuck_ him, and _fuck_ you,” shouts Peter, as the anger in the pit of his stomach whips out, a lash of hot hatred boiling out of him and looking for someone to singe. “Everyone’s all _worried_ and no one, no one-” his voice slides high and he can feel it, that same need to- need to-

His eyes dart around the room, as Steve says, warningly, “Peter-”

“Fuck you,” Peter spits again, and then remembers the mudroom, to the left- left of the kitchen- and takes off, like a bolt, throwing all of his speed into it, all of his speed and all of the spider’s speed, too.

He’s five steps behind the house, ready to turn to the right and begin chasing John’s Mazda down the drive, ready to follow the cloud of dirt, when the impossible happens.

Steve slams into him, driving him to the ground, his bulk and weight pinning Peter there. “You enhanced or a mutant?” mutters Steve. “Wasn’t in the paperwork.”

“Not a mutie,” spits Peter, shoving his shoulders back and trying to wiggle out of the hold, his eyes glued to John’s Mazda, getting smaller and smaller down the long dirt road back to the main house.

“Don’t call them that here,” grunts Steve. “Got plenty wandering around. If you want a fight, I can point you at a few who can explain why not.”

“Why _not_ ,” repeats Peter in a sneer, although really, he doesn’t have a problem with mutants in general and the few he knows, specifically. There’s nothing _wrong_ with it, like there’s nothing wrong with Peter being gay or- or whatever he is.

“Yeah, _not_ ,” grunts Steve. “Why we _don’t_ use that word. You need to be introduced, or you gonna stop because you’re smart enough to know when you’re being dumb?”

That hurts, that one- Peter struggles, trying to shake the man off.

“I can do this all day, Peter, _I’m_ enhanced,” Steve warns him, shaking him a little before pressing him back into the long grass. “Won’t even bother me, Bucky’ll bring me a sandwich. You’ll get tired long before I do, you look like a twig.”

“I won’t,” spits Peter, “because _I’m_ enhanced, and I’m- I’m- _stronger_ than I look-” but he can’t shift the man, he realizes, who moves to kneel on Peter’s back, one careful hand holding both of Peter’s in his, against the middle of Peter’s back.

“Need a hand?” shouts a voice.

“Nah, I got ‘im, Sam, thanks, though,” bellows Steve, his deep voice slamming into Peter’s eardrums. 

“We don’t usually wrestle them on the first day,” shouts the voice- the- the Sam.

“Hey, he’s the one asked for it,” bellows Steve. “Take it up with him.”

“Gotta do the chickens,” laughs the other voice.

“Buck-kuk!” teases Steve, before saying in a low, tight voice, “You done, kid?”

Peter nods, the grass rubbing roughly under his enflamed cheek. _Other people are watching._

“Well, good,” says Steve. “Get up, and go back inside.”

He stands then, smoothly, like chasing Peter down was nothing, like pinning him while Peter threw all of his spider agility and strength at him was _nothing_ . Peter’s hands clench into fists and his jaw is tight, but he also can’t help remembering Steve’s voice saying, _smart enough to know when you’re being dumb_. Steve caught him. Steve will catch him again.

And John’s probably half-way to the gate by now. He didn’t stop. He didn’t- didn’t drive slower. He doesn’t _want_ Peter to catch up.

Peter stands, ignoring the hand Steve offers him, and walks stiffly back to the door he’d shot out of, cheeks burning, heart pounding.

Steve nods him onto a stool under the kitchen countertop and Peter slides onto it. “You do that often?” Steve asks, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard. Peter can’t decide if it’s stupid to refuse to drink anything, stupid or _brilliant_ , because they can’t hold him if he’s dying, can they? He’ll have to be sent home. Or, no, wait, maybe they’d just take him to the hospital.

He drinks the juice Steve pours for both of them, ignoring the question.

Steve sighs, “So, you gonna give the silent treatment, now?”

Peter glares up at him and says, “No.”

“So do you do that often, Peter Parker?” asks Steve calmly, clearly up for trying again. “Run off.”

“Not usually,” Peter mutters, his cheeks flaming.

Steve hums. “Well, it’s your first day, we won’t- won’t be too many consequences. Early to bed, though.”

 _Early to bed?_ Peter thinks, bewildered.

“Yeah, if you’re stressed, you’ll need the extra sleep, anyway,” says Steve.

 ** _If_** _Peter’s stressed?_ Is the man insane? Who _wouldn’t_ be stressed, after the- after the day- the week- the _life_ that Peter’s had? Who wouldn’t be stressed?

“I don’t need a nap,” sneers Peter. “I’m not a- a kid.”

“Well, looking at you, I don’t think anyone around here’s gonna confuse you for a grown man,” says Steve mildly, gesturing to his own built body. Peter glowers. “And looking at how you’re acting, yeah, you need one. It’s a good idea, thank you for thinking of it. You hungry?”

Never. These days? Never. Peter shakes his head, swallowing thickly at even the thought of being asked to eat food, right now.

“Mm. Bucky baked bread last night, him and Harley. Choke down a single slice, and then we’ll talk some more,” says Steve, like that’s reasonable, already reaching and fumbling in drawers and grabbing a butter dish from the other counter. He slices off a thicker slice than Peter’s ever seen in a grocery store loaf, and slathers butter on it. “Go on, won’t kill you, I read your allergy history,” teases Steve, and Peter feels shaken.

Who is this asshole? What is- what the _fuck_ is going on?

Still. Clear direction. He can follow directions. He’s been doing it with John the last few days. He can do it here, too. 

He eats the bread, which is pretty good, even if it does stick in his throat. “It’s, uh, good,” he tells Steve.

“Want another? Got peanut butter,” offers Steve.

Peter hesitates, and apparently that’s enough of a signal for Steve to fly into motion again, building him a peanut butter sandwich with two equally-thick slices of bread and a hearty slather of peanut butter as Peter finishes the first slice.

Peter washes it down with the apple juice and then hesitates, feeling something like a tremble in his limbs. 

“Yeah, let’s go get you settled, upstairs,” says Steve firmly. “C’mon, kid.”

Peter follows, grabbing his bag when Steve tells him to, and climbing the stairs in front of the man. They pause in the storage room, and Steve unzips the bag, pulling out a plastic tote already marked with Peter’s name. “Won’t need most of this, would just wear it out,” explains Steve. He leaves out Peter’s pajamas and briefs and a couple of t-shirts, saying, “Still, always that day off, you’ll want to wear something feels less like a uniform.” He puts the tennis shoes May or- or maybe Sarah- had packed in the tote and seals it tight. 

“One pair of shoes?” asks Peter. 

“Got couple of pairs of boots for you, you’ll be wearin’ ‘em most days,” Steve tells him with a nod. “You come with a ball cap or something? For the sun?”

Peter shakes his head, aware that he needs a haircut and has needed one for months, now.

“Yeah, you can- someone’ll have something,” mutters Steve. “Okay, grab that-” he points to the small pile of clothes, “and put it back in the bag, you can heft it up the ladder, Mr. Enhanced.”

Peter flushes but shoves the clothes back in the bag and leaves the room, heading for the ladder to the loft. He climbs it quickly, and is somehow surprised when Steve climbs up after him. It feels like such a small space, even though it’s tall. Too small to fit the bulk of Steve-the-cowboy, but Steve does stand up in the center, and his shoulders _don’t_ hit the side walls of the roof. The whole loft feels cramped, though, with him in it. Peter’s heart starts to hammer because with Steve standing like that, there’s nowhere for Peter to _go_.

“Hey, settle,” says Steve firmly. “Just go put your stuff in the drawers, kick your bag beside it, it looks like it’ll fit.”

Peter scrambles to follow the directions.

“Okay, good,” says Steve with a chuckle. “Now, just, settle a bit. You’re gonna lie down, here, and just, just unwind, you’re strung tight enough to crack apart. And when Bucky and Harley get back, you can come down for dinner, and meet them, and then we’ll go down to the creek, see what we can catch, tonight, before bed. Nice and easy.”

They want him to _fish?_

Peter shakes his head and catches Steve’s frown. His heart races, because he didn’t mean to give the impression he _wouldn’t_ fish, that he had any kind of problem with any part of the agenda, in fact. He loves fishing, it just- it just, it’s so _weird_ to think about fishing, right now, like this is a vacation and not an exile. Everything is so _weird._ “No,” he tells the other man quietly, as Steve continues to frown at him, “I’m not- not saying no, just- sounds good.” He tries a smile.

“Okay,” says Steve, like he has doubts. Peter tries for what he thinks might be a better smile. Steve continues to look at him with a slight wrinkle of concern on his forehead as he says, “I’ll be down in the studio if you need me, but I’ll leave you alone, let you get on with it.”  
  
He nods at the bed on the right, and adds, “Don’t have to sleep if you can’t, but settle down, relax a bit, take a break.”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter. Isn’t that what he thought he wanted? Just a little break.

“Okay,” says Steve, backing up as Peter sinks down on the surprisingly comfortable mattress. “Come get me if you need me.”

 _I won’t_ , thinks Peter viciously, closing his eyes to block the other man away, and out. _I won’t, I won’t need anyone. Ever._

The window is open, and as his mind drifts, he can hear the sound of animals- unfamiliar and somehow shocking, the bleats and lows and moans and cackles and sharp barks of animals, and sometimes the shouts and calls of voices, too, indistinct and too distant for Peter to parse meaning from them.

~~~

He’s woken by Steve, lifting him up and shushing him, soothing, “Hey, hey, buddy, it’s okay, c’mon, Peter, wake up a bit.”

He’s so groggy, he just clings a bit, wiping his wet cheeks against the dry cloth, the warm muscle of another human being, his hands trembling with shock and shame, still. 

“They say never to wake someone from a nightmare but Bucky says that’s bullshit,” Steve tells him slowly. “Says he’d prefer to be woken up, if he’s trapped somewhere so scared or sad or mad.”

Oh. _Oh_. Dammit.

Peter pushes up, out of Steve’s hold, and Steve releases him easily, like he’d expected it. “Sorry,” croaks Peter.

“We all get them,” Steve tells him. “Everyone here. Nightmares and bad dreams.”

“Oh,” Peter says, dumbly. 

“Might want to start journaling them,” suggests Steve. “It can help- cut down mine after just a month, and Harley hardly ever has one, now that he’s writing them down.”

“Oh, uh,” says Peter. “Thanks?”

“Yeah, you can pick out a journal downstairs. They’ll be home in less than an hour, anyway. C’mon,” he says, and pulls Peter up to stand as easily as he’d pressed Peter into the grass and dirt outside.

They climb the ladder in silence and then enter the room Steve had said was his studio. There’s a huge draftsman table in one corner, and shelves and shelves of supplies, and there, by the door, a bookshelf. “Just dig around, find one that works, I make ‘em,” says Steve. “So don’t be shy, can just make another one if I need to.”

Peter marvels at the leather-bound books, with embossed edges and pictures pressed or burned into the covers. There’s one, in blue, with silver spiderwebbing, and his fingers itch for a full second before he reaches for it and traces the spiderwebs. 

“Here, choose your pen,” says Steve, gesturing to a shelf negligently, before returning to the draftsman table.

“What- what are you working on?” asks Peter, because the guy had been nice, he can be nice, too. He grabs a pen at random and slides closer to Steve, closing the distance cautiously.

“Oh, a sketch, you want to see? It’s of you,” Steve tells him, like that’s a normal thing and not weird.

It’s very weird, Peter assures himself. That’s very very weird.

But it’s a- it’s a good sketch. It’s just Peter’s face, sandwich in one hand, juice in the other, looking off into the distance. Peter’s no idiot, he knows it takes a lot of skill to re-create a face and get it to look right, but it’s just- it’s just Peter, eating a sandwich and looking distracted. That’s- that’s less weird. 

Or maybe more weird.

Fuck, he doesn’t know.

“You draw?” asks Steve absently, adding some lines to Peter’s hair that makes it look more _real_ , somehow.

“No,” admits Peter. “I did take a class on photography, that was fun,” he says. “I liked the- the framing? How to find the good shot. And the cameras were fun to take apart, too,” he adds.

“Stark said you were an engineer,” murmurs Steve. “Real useful type, engineers. Harley’s one, too, always got his hands in some project up at the workshop.”

“You have a workshop?” asks Peter.

“Two, one for metals and one for wood,” Steve tells him. “You can go try them out if you get a second, take Harley, he knows all the craftsmen and who to introduce you to.”

“You don’t?” asks Peter, startled.

“It’s a big ranch,” Steve says, and Peter gets the feeling he’s being evasive for some reason. “C’mon, I’m done for now, let’s go downstairs, I’ll show you around our paddock and shed.”

He moves quickly, and Peter scrambles not to be left behind, clutching the journal and the pen in one hand.

~~~

  
The paddock turns out to be a small, fenced in area attached to a generous shed at the back of the house, only a dozen or so feet from the house itself. Three ropes hang between the buildings, probably for laundry, thinks Peter, but what’s inside the shed is another shock entirely.

“This’s Shield,” says Steve easily. “He’s mine. Gelding, but a lot of power. Stark won’t allow any but the one stallion in the herd, the way nature intended, but most of our riding stock is either extra females not in foal or geldings.”

“It’s a horse,” says Peter stupidly, putting the journal on a table by the entrance to the shed and slipping the pen inside.

“Yeah, lotta ground to cover on the ranch,” Steve replies. “Could probably do golf carts and ATVs, but we got the stock, they need the work, and it’s easier, I guess. Stark likes it, anyway. Won’t have the carts.”

Peter eyes the horse warily. “It’s, he’s, uh- nice?”

“Yeah, he’s a beast, like a tank on four feet,” enthuses Steve, patting the huge space between the horse’s eyes and offering up an apple. “Trained him up from a foal. Had help, Bucky’s better with horses than me, but we’ll get you up on him tomorrow, maybe. You do any riding?”

“In Queens?” asks Peter, scandalized.

“Oh, I thought I heard home in your accent,” says Steve happily. “Brooklyn, born and raised, that’ll make Bucky happy, too. He was just down the street from me. Anyway, I’d guess not, then, neither one of us rode until we got out here. Bucky and Harley would never leave the saddle, if I didn’t pull them off, I think,” he says fondly, patting the neck of the horse and telling it, “and you’d be happier if I rode more, wouldn’t you, you monster?”

The horse bites at his _hair,_ thinks Peter, shocked, as Steve just pushes the huge head away and laughs, “Still ain’t straw, monster.”

Steve continues, nodding further into the shed, “Got four stalls, can slide that whole wall and let ‘em loose if we want, and we do, most days, let ‘em out into the sun and rain and whatever, let ‘em decide for themselves what they want to do, if we get stuck here. Otherwise, they’re with us. We’ll take you down, have Nat and Thor sort you out, see where you stand, and figure who’ll be a good match for you. Bucky’s got a skittish fella right now, trying to soothe him out, and Harley’s got Tantrum, of course, and even _I’m_ not confident I could make him behave.”

“Oh,” says Peter faintly, looking at the large liquid eyes of Shield.

“Here, he won’t bite at you, your hair’s not the same color as straw,” laughs Steve. “C’mere, give him a pat, I’ll see if I can find you a peppermint to bribe him with.”

So Peter pats the horse’s neck, and rubs up and down his nose, as Steve supervises and approves, until Steve hisses, “Hey, _you_ , don’t you dare think about coming in the house, you flirt!”

Peter rears back, shocked, and the horse shakes its head at him. Steve is addressing a calico cat, his face stern. “Peter, that’s Henrietta, and you _don’t_ let her in the house until she’s had those kittens,” he says firmly. The cat winds her way over, heavy and fat, and rubs herself against Steve’s shins. “Well, maybe,” Steve amends. “I don’t know. We can see if we can sneak her past Bucky, anyway. Harley’ll help. She likes to give birth in our closet,” he says, as if this is any kind of explanation. “Pisses Bucky right off.”

“Oh,” says Peter stupidly. “That- sounds messy?”

“It is,” agrees Steve. “Very. Oh, hey, I think that’s them, coming up,” he says brightly, and sure enough, on the edge of Peter’s hearing, he can hear the clip-clop of horse feet- hooves- whatever- hitting the hard packed dirt of the road that ends at the house.

“Hey, he here?” shouts an excited voice.

“Yeah,” bellows Steve, sticking his head out of the shed door and gesturing for Peter to follow him outside. “You take care of Tantrum first, and then you can come meet him.”

“Awwww, Steve,” says the voice, and then Peter is squinting into the spring sunshine, letting his eyes adjust.

And then he’s just squinting, shocked.

The voice belongs to a very hot, tousled-haired man about Peter’s own age, with a huge smile and laughing, rich brown eyes. He’s wearing tight jeans and cowboy boots and a plain red t-shirt, a flannel one tied around his waist. And a bone white cowboy hat on his head, tilted back. The muscles on his forearms show in sharp relief as the horse he’s riding does some kind of jig and he has to _wrestle_ with the horse’s head. “Ho, settle,” he says lowly. “Settle, Tantrum.”

“Toldja ya didn’t run him enough,” grunts the man behind him, on a very black horse, and wearing, uh- Peter’s brain blanks on anything but the black hat and long black hair spilling from it, the tight black undershirt tucked into the black jeans, and the black boots. He looks- he looks- if Steve looked like he stepped from a calendar, and the kid- who must be Harley- looks like he stepped out of a movie, then _this_ guy looks like he stepped out of a _porn_ _video_.

“Hush,” tuts Harley, “he’ll be fine, won’tcha. Just a new scent, that’s all, ain’t it, baby?”

The horse dances another jig, and Bucky blows out an angry breath. “Go _run_ him, Harley, go on, up and down, canter him ‘til supper’s ready.”

“Aww, Buck, I wanted to meet Peter,” whines the- the man. The other guy. God, Peter hates when anybody calls him a kid, he’s not going to do that to the guy.

“And you can, but work comes first,” says Bucky firmly. “Look at Patches, here, I worked him hard enough, and he’s responding. Go put in the time.”

Harley nods at Peter and touches his hat and Peter’s not some barmaid, but his heart flutters at the respectful gesture. “See you in a few,” Harley promises. “Lemme go take care of Tantrum.”

Bucky grunts at Steve, “Oh, don’t look at me like that, kid wanted a high-strung horse, he has to _earn_ keeping one around.”

Steve sighs and says, “Well, get down here and say hi, at least. I’ll go put Patches up.”

“N-no,” says Peter. “I-” _Don’t leave me alone with the porn cowboy_ , he wants to beg. 

“Kid wants to stay with you,” Bucky notes. 

“Then he can learn how to take care of Patches while you go get cleaned up and started on dinner,” says Steve.

Bucky rolls his eyes and slips off the horse so smoothly Peter swallows. He clicks his tongue and the horse follows him, docile as a dog after a dogwalker, Peter thinks. He hands the reins to Steve and gives the man a casual kiss, muttering something Peter can’t hear that Steve clearly disapproves of by the way he hits Bucky on the shoulder.

“Ribs,” says Bucky as he stalks to the house.

“Steak,” corrects Steve.

“Sick of steak,” Bucky says, opening the door.

“Steak,” Steve repeats, tugging on the horse’s reins. “C’mon, Peter, you can get a lesson in getting one of them settled for the night, after the work’s all done.”

~~~

Horses love curry combs, Peter learns, to his delight. And Peter also kinda likes rubbing Patches with it, watching his skin shiver and his head toss, speaking lowly the way Steve says horses appreciate, so they know where you are and what you’re doing at all times. Steve keeps up a low, slow conversation the whole time, talking and talking just to keep making noise. Peter talks back, because it does help, he can see it, it helps Patches and Shield both, they track the sound of his voice, and that’s- that’s so cool.

Eventually Steve chuckles and shows Peter how to give Patches enough food for the night, and water, too, and a carrot for a treat. Patches snuffles against Peter’s shoulder as he closes her stall door and Peter feels something strange, soft and sweet and strange, as he walks with Steve over to the saddle and stuff.

“This’s tack, and we store our tack with respect,” Steve tells him seriously, making firm eye contact. “Never an excuse to leave it lying around, no matter what Harley tells you when he’s hungry and in a hurry.”

“Okay,” agrees Peter warily.

“So, here, grab a cloth, and wipe it, like this,” Steve says, wiping the dust off and making the leather shine again.   
  
_Wow_ , thinks Peter, and he doesn’t know why. It’s just _cleaning_ , but somehow, it’s more, too, the way Steve does it, carefully, taking his time, the rag streaking shine in a continuous pattern, up and down the leather slowly. Steve wipes, and Peter wipes, his hands getting slick from the oil in the rag, and Steve keeps up that low talking, about how there’s some guy here at the ranch who hand makes all their tack, the way it should be done. He points out the stitching and the gloss and the metal bits, and the metal bits that Harley helped make, which is really- _painfully-_ cool of Harley.

And then they’re done, the tack’s all hung and straightened and it glows and glistens, and the horses are happily munching, and then Harley shoves half through the door, breathing hard, holding reins in his other hand. “Hey, I’m gonna let him out into the paddock, take care of him later,” he says casually. “He ain’t done running yet.”

“Then go run him,” says Steve sternly. “Bucky hasn’t rung the bell. And then take care of him, before you come in. You wanted Tantrum, you work for him.”

“Fours rang theirs,” says Harley mutinously. “And he just needs-”

“You know what he needs, now go give it to him, Harley,” says Steve, again, in that same firm, aggressive tone.

Peter looks between them, to Harley half-in, half-out of the door, and then to Steve, with his arms crossed, head tilted, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, all right,” sighs Harley, kicking at the doorframe.

“You break it, you pay for it,” warns Steve.

“Yeah, all _right_ ,” spits Harley. “C’mon, Tantrum, let’s ride again, huh, buddy?”

“Shoulda named _him_ Tantrum and the horse Harley,” mutters Steve, before quirking a smile at Peter and saying, “C’mon, let’s go wash up and see if Bucky needs a hand.”

Steve heels out of his boots by the door once they’re inside and says, “Yeah, sorry, started you out wrong, shoes and boots off in the mudroom, Peter, every time, or so help you, if you track dirt in. Dirty clothes can also get dropped here, although yours look fine. On heavy work days, you drop your dirty here, and walk to the shower, and then grab clean, here, let me show you.”

He waits for Peter to heel out of his tennies before turning and showing Peter how the very next door is a room with two showers, benches and sinks, and a cabinet with towels and sweat pants, t-shirts, all XXL. “They’ll swamp you, same as they do Harley, but they’ll get you up to your rooms where you can pull on your own,” Steve tells him bluntly. 

The right shower has water dripping down it and Peter swallows, thinking of the porn cowboy showering in this room, while _Peter_ showers in here, and immediately thinking, _never gonna let that happen_. Goals are important, his therapist says. Steve says, “Okay, so, through that door- and he nods to a door set in between the two showers “-is the door to the toilets, we have two of ‘em.”

He heads for the door, and Peter follows, just to see- and yeah, there’s two individual rooms with toilets and sinks, set on either side of the short hallway. 

“And then we’re back to the front,” says Steve. “Turn left, and there’s the sitting area and kitchen, go straight and you’ll hit the workout room, turn right and that’s the side door out to the patience pole.”

“The what?” asks Peter, his heart thumping wildly for no reason he can name.

“For the horses, for when, here, I’ll show you,” says Steve, and walks him outside, to where a steel pole about 14 feet tall is sunk into a big rectangle of concrete. “See? You clip a horse in and it can go ‘round and ‘round the pole while it waits, and not get anywhere and get bored. Teaches a flighty horse to just stand and wait.”

“Oh,” says Peter. “That’s- that’s smart.”

“Yeah, as long as a horse can move their feet, they’re more likely to calm down,” says Steve easily. “Hey, how’s he doing?” he bellows at Harley, who flows by them, making Peter’s jaw drop. Harley wheels his horse slowly and walks him back, his hips and body molded to the motion of the horse in a way that makes Peter’s mouth go dry. 

“Almost there, just starting to settle,” says Harley matter-of-factly, grinning at Peter. “Be in, maybe, five, ten more?”

“All right,” says Steve. “I’ll be counting.”

“Sure you will,” laughs Harley, shaking his head. “Tell Bucky to ring the bell hard, though, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head and pushes Peter back into the house with a steady hand on Peter’s shoulder. “What a little shyster,” he says, but he doesn’t sound upset, he sounds _proud_. “Anyway, so that’s the routine. If you’re not too dusty and dirty, you can just toe off your boots and leave ‘em, but don’t make work. If you’re not sure, just strip down and go shower. Ain’t worth the hassle,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Peter feels a smile twitch on his lips and then, just like that, he remembers that he’s not supposed to smile any more, because- because- _oh_.

Oh. He’d _forgotten_. He’d _forgotten_ , in all the- in all the, the nap and then the horse, the tack, Steve’s steady voice talking, he’d _forgotten_ that Ben isn’t here, anymore.

Oh, God.

He _forgot_ Ben.

“I-” he says, when Steve turns back to look at him, face already concerned.

“Don’t you run,” warns Steve, walking closer.

“I- I-” stutters Peter, shocked at how he could _forget_ , forget that-that- how a couple of hot guys could- what would _Ben_ think? What- what kind of- how could he-

“Breathe, Peter,” says Steve, and Peter looks up at him, shocked and shaken. “Breathe. In.”

Peter takes a shaky breath in, eyes locked on Steve’s face. “Good,” soothes Steve. “Now let it out, slow. What’s got you spooked?”

“Ben,” croaks Peter.

“Who’s Ben?” asks Steve, because _he doesn’t know_ because he’s a stranger, because Ben’s dead and Peter’s too much for May to handle and- and-

“Who’s Ben, Peter?” asks Steve again, putting a heavy hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezing.

The question doesn’t make any sense. “My- my uncle,” gasps Peter. “He- he, um-” His eyes fill, and dammit, he’s spent the whole trip here crying on John.

“Ah, the one that passed, recently?” asks Steve, compassion in his voice.

Peter nods. 

“Still fresh, huh?” asks Steve.

Peter shrugs, struggling with his eyes, his breathing.

“Well, best tribute to a good man is tears shed by those he leaves behind,” says Steve firmly. “You want to go off by yourself, or you prefer to have some company?”

“A-alone,” gasps Peter. 

“All right. Take your journal,” says Steve. “Try writing in it. Sometimes it helps.”

Peter flinches. “I- I don’t know where-”

“Go check out in the shed,” Steve directs him, nodding at the side door. “Go on, I’ll wait in the mudroom.”

Peter’s hands are trembling, he realizes, as he shoves through the side door and walks around the side of the house. He steps into the shed, trying to move slowly the way Steve said horses like best, and spies the journal, grabbing it and making sure the pen is inside. He heads back to the house and hears the sound of hooves clattering up to the shed. He hunches his shoulder and shoves in.

“There ya go,” says Steve. “Found it fast. Bucky’s still messing around with dinner, go on up to the loft, settle in, stop being scared of your own tears. They’re good, Peter. You’re supposed to cry when a good man dies.”

Peter looks up at him and says, stupidly, “I- I wore my socks, they’re-”

“Go ahead and take them off, good thinking,” says Steve firmly. 

Peter puts down the journal to slide off the socks while Steve watches and then slides past the man, a hitch in his step making him almost run through the hallways and take the stairs two a time. He has to shove the journal in his mouth to get up the ladder, but that’s okay. It’s his, now, Steve gave it to him.

He rubs the cover and starts, hesitantly, to write,

_I don’t know- Steve said to write, so, I just._

_I just miss him._

_So much._

And that’s as far as he gets before he can’t see any more, can’t see the page and can’t hold his head up because he’s sobbing.

He has no idea how long he cries. Long enough for snot to get involved, and tissues, too, long enough that his breath burns and it just feels stupid to keep going.

“Hey,” says a quiet voice, and Peter twists, scrubbing at his face to look at the ladder. “Just me,” says Harley, his dark eyes solemn. “They sent me to tell you supper’s done.”

“I’m not hungry,” Peter tells him angrily.

“Yeah, that’s not how it works around here,” sighs Harley, shaking his head. “C’mon down, you don’t need them coming up here in a tizzy.”

“I just- Steve said I could be alone,” protests Peter, shocked.

“Yeah, for a _cry_ , not for the night,” Harley tells him. “C’mon, trust me, they’ll both climb up here and you don’t need that.”

Peter swallows thickly and begins to move.

“Oh, good, you’re gonna be a smart one,” Harley says with obvious relief. “Thank God.”

Peter’s feet hit the landing and Harley sweeps him into a hug, shocking the shit out of Peter. “There, you needed that,” Harley tells him, patting him on the back and releasing him. “You probably didn’t know it, but you can’t see yourself. Thanks for being so smart and coming down. Saved my whole blessed night.”

“Y-you’re welcome,” Peter stutters.

“Yeah, yeah, c’mon, stairs, Bucky’ll be bitching in about fifty seconds,” Harley tells him, rolling his eyes and grabbing for Peter’s hand to tug him down the stairs.

Peter can’t help but notice, as he follows, that Harley’s hair is curling, right where it hits the neck of his t-shirt.

~~~

“Oh, good,” says Steve, and there’s real relief on his face. “He’s a smart one.”

“Yup,” says Harley. 

“You feel any better?” Steve asks Peter.

“I- I don’t know,” Peter tells him slowly. He feels _hollow_.

“Go eat,” directs the porno-cowbo- _Bucky_. Directs _Bucky_. With a perfectly normal nod, towards the sitting room.

“Here,” laughs Harley, taking Peter’s hand again. “C’mon. He set the table.”

“Kid’s first night here, you bet I set the table,” growls the porno- _Bucky_ , corrects Peter again, savagely.

“He’s a stickler,” Harley chuckles, and pulls Peter over to a set of doors he had missed, before, and how had he missed these? There’s a small room, there, with a cut-out pass through to the kitchen, which is closed. Peter thought those shutters in the kitchen were _decorative_. 

“Tacos!” crows Harley.

“Carne asada,” corrects Bucky.

“ _Steak_ tacos!” chuckles Steve, setting in to the chair at the head of the table. Harley laughs, too, while Bucky looks darkly at the two of them.

“Carne asada,” growls Bucky, lifting the lid and filling the room with the delicious smell of-

“Carne asada,” says Peter, surprised.

“Noo,” drawls Harley, throwing himself into a chair and grabbing the lid off the tortillas. “Don’t give in. Always tries to make everything fancy. It’s just steak tacos, Peter!”

“No, pretty sure those are carne asada,” says Peter faintly. “They smell _really_ good.”

“Thanks!” says Bucky, loading his plate with rice and refried beans. “Last thing I’m making with steak,” he says gruffly.

“We’ve been clearing out the freezer so it doesn’t run all summer,” Harley explains to Peter. “So it’ll be chicken and fish for awhile, until he starts bitching about that, and then-“

“Language,” sighs Steve, making Harley wince.

“Sorry,” Harley mutters, before saying, “So he’ll be complaining about chicken and fish for awhile, and then it’ll be veal and lambchops, and then he’ll complain about _them_ , and-”

“Bucky loves to cook,” Steve tells Peter. “He loves complaining about cooking just as much.”

Peter eyes up Bucky at the foot of the table and says, hesitantly, “I’ve never had veal.”

“‘S good,” says Harley, his full mouth dripping taco.

“Working ranch,” grunts Bucky. “Biggest one in the county, 10,000 head give or take, got another 2,000 in sheep and nobody counts the damn chickens.”

“The chickens are for staff, anyway,” explains Harley. 

“How many- uh, people?” asks Peter.

“‘Bout a hundred,” says Bucky shortly. “Give or take, depending on time of year. Human herd fluctuation’s as bad as the animal one.”

“Won’t see most of ‘em now,” says Harley. “Everyone’s out doing fence runs. We’d be out, too, ‘xcept for you.”

“X Mansion holds most of the folks,” Steve adds. “That and the main house. This’n and Number 4 were built special, for, uh, side projects.”

“Kids like you,” says Harley bluntly, smiling sunnily at Peter. “Who need a little extra help. Although honestly, you don’t look like much trouble.”

“Hello?” calls a voice.

“In here, eating,” shouts Bucky. “Go away, Sam.”

“Oooh, steak tacos?” says the voice, coming closer.

“Go away, Sam, ain’t mooching,” bellows Bucky.

There’s the sound of clattering in the kitchen and a man appears, dressed in worn jeans and a light blue t-shirt, with socks on his feet and a plate in his hand. “Like hell I’m not mooching, have pity on a displaced bachelor,” he says, smiling.

“Displaced, hell, you’ll be back,” growls Bucky. 

“No place for my horse, once you get him matched up,” says Sam.

“Might as well work up an addition, a little lean-to, for guest horses,” says Steve. “We said we wanted to do that with the last one, didn’t we?”

“Don’t need it, he’ll just be here through the summer,” says Bucky.

“It rains,” protests Harley.

“Horses ain’t made of sugar,” Bucky tells him gruffly.

Peter can only just follow this, and says hesitantly, “Did- did I take your bed?”

All four of them laugh. 

“Nah,” says Harley. “Catch Sam climbing the ladder to bunk in with me. No, he’s whining because we said clear out of our guest room, s’tiny, tucked up on Steve’n’Bucky’s floor, just a bed, really.”

“B-because of me?” asks Peter in a small voice.

Sam elbows Harley and says, “Look who thinks he’s the center of the world, already. Nah, kid, I get kicked out most summers, the hours I keep are terrible once it gets warm and we let the little boy animals scamper around with the little girl ones.”

“Sam’s a vet,” explains Steve. “One of several on property. Stark likes to have his cowpokes overqualified, if he can. Bucky’s one, too, but Sam’s actually on-staff as a vet.”

“Steve’s a vet,” says Harley. “Don’t let them fool you. Most of the people walking around looking serious and covered in interesting scars are vets.”

“And then there’s you,” laughs Sam.

“And then there’s me,” agrees Harley, taking another huge bite of taco and wiping his lips with his thumb.

“Don’t let his ‘aw shucks’ routine fool you,” Steve tells Peter, eyes twinkling, “he’s been working as Bucky and Sam’s shadow since he was thirteen, he’s probably got enough experience to qualify himself.”

“All those college courses, though,” says Sam in a teasing tone of voice, elbowing Harley again.

“Getting him through high school is like pulling teeth, have to grab my belt every time semester end hits us,” grumbles Bucky.

“Aww, Buck,” mutters Harley, cheeks tinging pink, “Don’t- uh-”

“Did you get your finals in, already?” asks Steve.

Peter watches in fascination as Harley shifts in his seat, looking distinctly disgruntled. “Yeah, yeah, they’ll- I’m almost-” he mutters.

Bucky, at the foot of the table, sits back, and Peter can feel the tension in the other men suddenly rise, even as they slow in their eating. His own heart starts to pound.

“Harley,” drawls Bucky slowly, and Harley _flinches_. What the _fuck?_

“No, I will, I just- it’s the geometry,” mutters Harley. “Got sent back.”

“Incomplete?” sighs Steve, shaking his head and reaching for his fork, taking a big scoop of rice and beans and cocking an eyebrow at Sam, who shakes his head and takes a careful, slow bite of his taco, shifting to look between Harley and Bucky with the eye of an avid sports fan.

“No!” protests Harley, his head coming up, but he doesn’t look at _Steve_ , he looks at Bucky. There’s no panic in his gaze, just a stubborn set to his jaw. “No, I did the work, I did, I answered every question, I promise, it’s just I got some wrong or something, so they sent it back to let me try again, that’s all, I promise. It’s not even due until next week, I promise, Bucky. I don’t _lie_ about that stuff.”

There’s a pause, and then he continues, shooting Peter a quick shamefaced look, “ _Anymore_.”

“Well, all right,” says Bucky slowly, and the tension at the table drops just like _that_ \- Peter takes a deep breath, shocked. “Then we’ll add it into your schedule. You need to get up to the main house, get some help from the eggheads?”

“No,” says Harley forcefully. “I can figure it out. I’m not _dumb_.”

“No one,” says Sam slowly and pointedly, “said anything about anyone being dumb. You’re about as dumb as ol’ Mr. Fox, and twice as clever as Brer Rabbit, and you know it, Harley, and you know _we_ know it.”

“Nothing wrong with needing help, either,” says Steve firmly. “Everyone needs help around here, we all help.”

“Not getting help is usually what gets you in so much trouble, ain’t it, kiddo?” asks Bucky, reaching for another tortilla.

Harley sighs and rolls his eyes at Peter. “God, say something, make them stop,” he pleads, and Peter feels a thrill, in his chest, that the other man reached out to _him_ , out of everyone at the table.

“I- I-” says Peter slowly, and then he spits out, “I don’t want to be here. I don’t- I miss- I’m not troubled, I’m _not_ , and I’m sorry, you all seem really nice, but I don’t- I was just trying to _help_ and John got all upset and Aunt May-” he swallows, his stomach flipping and making him regret the three tacos he’d shoveled into his mouth while the rest of them talked around him. “And I know I shouldn’t have, B-ben said, but _we needed the money_.” He bites his lip then, and grabs for his glass of water, gulping it so the hotness in his eyes cools a little.

“Mm,” Bucky hums into the silence. “Needing money is the root of all evil, if you ask me.”

“Agreed,” says Sam. “Tony explain how your contract work, kid?”

“Who?” asks Peter, his cheeks flaming because _what the hell was that_. “I- I met Jarvis, um, at the main house, and then, then just _you_.”

“Tony Stark, it’s his family ranch,” says Steve easily, like Peter hadn’t just gone completely insane for a moment there. “He’s the one sets the work contracts.”

“I’m, uh, John said I was here for, uh, therapy?” says Peter in confusion.

All four men chuckle, making him flinch.

“Yeah, no,” says Harley, shaking his head. “No, we don’t do that. I mean, sure, Sam’s got some therapy stuff from his past life, before he decided to man up and help calves out of the birth canal, but, like, we’re _cowboys_ , Peter, it’s a _working ranch_.”

“But you said-” says Peter in confusion, “-uh, that, you take in, uh-”

“Yeah, people who need some structure and hard work to straighten out a bit,” agrees Steve easily, smiling at Peter with those same twinkling eyes from earlier in the day. “The Keener family has worked with us in the past, knew we’d be what Harley needed, and when they contacted Tony and said they had another rescue project, needed to get out of the big city, well, that was enough for us. John said you were a good kid, good with your hands, Peter, good with his dog,” he ends, gently, putting a hand on Peter’s forearm and shaking it a little. 

“Oh,” says Peter in a very quiet voice, his face flaming.

“Said you were in some hot water, got in over your head after your uncle passed,” says Bucky in a voice that’s harder than Steve’s but still gentler than any of the words he’s said yet. “Needed a break, some place to help you get worked out enough to sleep through the night. Said your aunt was hit hard by your uncle’s passing and couldn’t give you the kind of looking after you needed.”

Peter’s so ashamed he wishes he could sink through the chair or burst into a cloud of smoke.

“Didn’t he _talk_ to you?” asks Harley, clearly mortified on Peter’s behalf. “Tell you _anything_? Or did he just, just shove you in a car and drive? Goddamnit, my whole fucking family, Bucky, I was telling you, you don’t believe me, but here’s proof that they’re all _idiots_.”

“Language,” mutter Sam and Steve, and Harley flinches again, Peter catches it.

“He- he might have,” admits Peter, feeling his cheeks still flaming red. “I- I was-”

“In over your head in more ways than one,” says Steve kindly, refilling his glass with water. He grips Peter’s forearm again and says, “Which isn’t a surprise. You’ve been through a lot. Take a deep breath. No one at this table has any room to judge. Harley’s whole family is apparently a barrel of idiots.”

“All of ‘em,” chortles Harley merrily. “Every single last- I’m gonna call mama on Sunday and tell her to rip John a new one.”

“N-no,” says Peter, thinking of how John had held him, in the night, slid into bed and held him while he cried, how John had- had- “I- I need to call John, too, if you- do you think I could?” he asks, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“They can go fishing and I’ll take you down, myself,” says Steve firmly. “Be a good night walk, right before bed. And he’ll be happy to hear from you.”

Peter can’t imagine why John would be, but he still needs to call. He- he owes the man an apology. He was- he was _so wrong_. He nods and tries not to sniffle like some dumb kid who’s holding back tears, taking another sip from his water glass.

“Well, we have devastated this table,” declares Sam, sitting back. “Harley, Peter, you on KP tonight?”

“Yeah,” sighs Harley. “Thank you for the food, Bucky.”

Around the table, Steve and Sam echo his words, and so Peter does, too, flashing the dark-haired man a quick glance. Bucky smiles smugly and states, “Carne asada. Say it with me, _thank you, Bucky, for the carne asada_.”

“Thank you for the _steak tacos_ ,” carol all three of the other men, standing and bursting into laughter. Steve grabs Peter’s plate and says, “Sit, drink that water, we’ll clear and get started, and you can help dry, learn where things go in the kitchen.”

The other men shove dishes onto the ledge between the dining room and the kitchen, plates and silverware and pots and pans rattling and clattering.

“C’mon, Peter,” says Bucky slowly, standing and stretching in a way that makes Peter avert his eyes quickly. “Bring your water, we’ll go check on Harley’s tack. Kid’s always throwing it around and Steve’s got a thing.”  
  
“Uh, ok,” agrees Peter, standing swiftly and following him.

Bucky is barefoot, too, Peter notices, wondering briefly about safety as they walk past the kitchen and through the mudroom. Bucky doesn’t seem concerned, though, walking quickly with that same hitched-step strut that Harley has, a little less pronounced, like Harley’s working too hard to make it happen, now that Peter’s watched Bucky do it. 

Not that Peter’s staring at how the guy walks.

Not that Peter’s noticing.

Bucky shoulders into the shed and says, “Aww, he’s showing off, look at that,” motioning Peter to come stand beside him in the doorway and pointing.

On the third saddle stand is a second brown saddle, heavy with metal decorations that Peter imagines Harley is pretty proud of. Peter’d be proud of them, anyway. The middle one has Bucky’s own distinctive black saddle. The third saddle gleams just as much as the other two, obviously well-cared for. The bridle and reins are hung up neatly on a peg on the wall, too, the saddle blanket on display on the stand. 

“C’mon, kid, nothing left to see once you’ve seen Harley’s good work,” chuckles Bucky, pulling Peter back with a powerful hand on Peter’s arm, “was hoping we wouldn’t have to run back for boots.” His hand feels stiff and somehow cold to the touch, and Peter looks down at it, shocked. “Oh, yeah, hey, meet my hand,” says Bucky, gruffly. “Ain’t flesh.”

“You- a prosthetic?” asks Peter. He’d done his Young Geniuses grant on prosthetic enhancements, working with Jumping For Kids to make prosthetic running legs cheaper to develop and able to respond to the needs of a growing body, reusable and customizable and, above all, _really cool_.

“That a problem for you?” says Bucky lowly, and Peter realizes he’s staring at the hand. 

“No, no, I, uh, did work, with prosthetics, prosthetic feet, you know, the jumping running feet things? Back- back home,” says Peter, and then, suddenly, all he can think of is how _proud_ Ben and May had been, when he’d brought home his first 3D printed leg, showed them how it worked. How proud they’d been, how the fridge at home still had a photo of Chidindu in Nigeria, Chidindu and his Iron Man leg, the leg Peter designed that would grow with him for a couple of years, and make the many-miles daily trip to school _possible_ for the little guy.

“Hey, kid,” says Bucky gruffly, pulling him across the short path worn into the scrubby lawn to the mudroom. “Ain’t any reason to go getting teary-eyed, it don’t hurt any. Stark paid them home office people lots to get me top-notch set up. It’s as useful as my old hand. More useful, when you figure it can take a lot more pressure without getting crushed.”

“Oh, uh,” says Peter, shaking his head, fighting back the lump in his throat, “No, I just-”

“Peter,” shouts Harley, “no ducking out, I’m not doing all the clean up by myself, get your ass in here!”

“Language,” bellows Bucky, startling Peter, but it comes from two other voices inside the house, too, and then there’s a quiet, “Ow, what? What’d I say?” from Harley as they move down the hallway, Bucky pushing Peter ahead of him.

Sam is sitting at the kitchen counter, clearly supervising Harley at the sink. There’s a stack of clean dishes in the dish rack and Bucky says, “Towel’s’re in the third drawer down, get drying, I’ll help you figure out where to put ‘em.”

“Eh, I got it,” says Sam lazily, waving Bucky off. “Go ahead.”

Harley’s down to just the one last pot that he’s scrubbing when Sam says, like it just occurred to him, “Oh, hey, Peter, we got these dishes. Go look out on the couch, the whole point of me coming up here, anyway. Although, if you’re going down to make a phone call, looks like I almost wasted a trip.”

Peter hangs the towel he’s holding on the handle of the oven and slips quietly from the kitchen. 

His throat closes tightly as he realizes what’s sitting, nicely folded, on the couch. 

His quilt. From home. And his pillow, too.

“Hey, Peter,” Steve says, startling him into jumping. “Ready to go for that long walk?”

“Y-yeah,” admits Peter. God, he has so much to apologize to John about. Where will he even start?

As they walk, Steve keeps up that same low-voice talking he’d done in the shed earlier, not quite a chatter of words but never letting it get too quiet, either. Peter responds back, as Steve pauses at intervals, and it’s soft and soothing and Peter realizes it doesn’t just work on horses, his nerves are settling down a little, too.

He can’t remember John’s number, when they get to the main house, and so he stares at the handset for a very long moment.

“Peter? Need help?” asks Steve gently.

“Y-yeah,” sighs Peter. “I don’t remember his, uh, his number.”

“No one does, none of you big city cell phone people do,” teases Steve. “Here,” he says, and passes Peter a slip of paper from his pocket. “Figured you’d need it.”

Peter punches in the numbers and feels his heartbeat speed up. John picks up with a click and says, in that same steady voice, a little sleep-fuddled, he _must_ be so tired, “Hello, John Keener here.”

“H-hi, Unc’a John,” starts Peter, hunching away from Steve and taking a few steps down the porch. “I just- I’m just- I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no, Petey, no, no need to apologize, kiddo,” John says, his voice kind and choked with emotions Peter can’t even begin to identify, except that they resonate somewhere inside him and remind him that this man loves him.

“No, no, I didn’t- I’m sorry,” Peter says again, aware that it comes out a lot thicker, more like a sob. “I just- I didn’t mean to- I want to say _thank you_.”

“Oh, Petey,” sighs John. “You can’t know how much that helps. You have no idea-”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t- I don’t want to-” stumbles Peter, and then his breath hitches and he stops talking so he doesn’t start crying, again, on this stupid, ridiculously large front porch where any one of a hundred strangers could see him.

“Yeah, me neither, kiddo, I definitely didn’t enjoy that drive, Petey,” confesses John. “God, leaving you there- even knowing it’s the best place for you, right now, they’ll help, they helped Harley, I swear to God, Peter, it’s what’s best. Let me get May on her feet and I’ll be back there so fast, Petey. Drive all night, to come get you. But it’s a safe place, and it gets you out of all the- the trouble around here, until we can get stuff settled a bit for you.”

Peter’s nodding frantically, gripping the phone so tightly he hears the casing groan. He realizes John can’t hear him and croaks, “Yeah, yes, Unc’a John. Yes. I- tell May I’ll call her on Sunday.” He still doesn’t know how many days that is. “Tell her- take care of her- tell Sarah I say thanks, but tell her- I love her, and I’m gonna, be good out here, okay? You tell her that?”

“Oh, Petey, you’re good no matter where you are,” says John, voice thick with kindness and affection, and Peter’s heart breaks a little, because what he’d _thought_ about the man, what he’d _been thinking_ the whole trip out here. “You just hold tight, give yourself a break. I called the school and talked for a bit while I drove today and you’ve already passed your classes, and how the hell you managed that with everything goin’ on, well. They said you don’t need to worry about the last month of anything, you had straight A’s with extra credit in almost everything, and how the _hell_ you managed that, Petey-”

Peter lets out a noise, aware that the phone is creaking again and loosening his grip. “Ben’d kill me if I didn’t-” he mutters in a cracked voice.

“I guess he would rise up vengeful,” agrees John, with a sad little laugh. “And I will, too, so keep your nose clean. No midnight money making schemes, okay?”

“Deal,” says Peter firmly, although it squeaks out because his throat is so tight.

“All right, you okay?” asks John, and Peter nods, “Yeah, yeah, I just- I just had to tell you-”

“I’m very grateful,” John says slowly. “Maybe May won’t hog you all to herself on Sunday and she’ll let me say hi on the speakerphone.”

“Yeah,” says Peter, and wishes he could think of something to say to draw this out, listen to John’s voice for longer.

“Night, Petey,” John says, like he’s reluctant but exhausted and this was all he needed. “Thanks for the call.”

“Yes, Unc’a John, sweet dreams,” forces Peter, like he’d done every time Ben and May had sent him up to bed at bedtime while they and the Keeners had hung out in the kitchen, playing cards and talking shit about Ben and John’s boss.

“Sleep well,” says John, and then Peter has to hang up, he has to, so he pulls the phone away from his ear and jabs the button, breathing hard and glaring.

“That was well done,” says Steve, behind him, and Peter shrugs his whole body in denial.

There’s a heavy hand on his back, then, and Steve says quietly, “No, that was very well done, Peter, and I won’t have you ignoring how grown up that was, taking responsibility like that and making tomorrow easier for him. C’mon, let’s get back to the bunkhouse.”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter.

The rest of the night is a blur of exhaustion, as Steve makes him clean himself up in the shower room and grab his pillow and quilt and head upstairs, then come down to the studio and write in his journal while Steve works at the draft table. He barely writes a word a minute, but eventually the page is full and Harley is pounding up the stairs, shouting, “Bucky says remember the time zones and get Peter to bed!”

“Oh, crap,” mutters Steve, putting down his pencil and stretching. There’s a lot of him to stretch, Peter notes in an absent, exhausted kind of way, before Harley bursts into the room and says, “C’mon, it’s like, midnight already in New York, Steve.”

Steve sighs and says, “He’s ready, go get him settled. You wash up?”

“Duh,” laughs Harley, pointing to his wet head. “C’mon, Peter,” he demands, already leaving the studio.

Peter caps the pen and pulls himself up out of the beanbag chair he’d found behind the door.

“Good work tonight,” says Steve absently. “I saw you writing.”

“Yeah,” says Peter quietly, and then leaves to follow after Harley.

“Hey, so, we can push the beds back, that’s how they’re supposed to be,” says Harley nervously, running a hand through his hair and turning around in the small space in front of the dressers, looking everywhere in the room. “You know, on the edges or whatever, with room to walk down the middle, but I- um, we haven’t had anyone up here with me in awhile, so I put ‘em together, so I could stretch out, but then, well, you’re here and maybe it’s weird?”

“Nah,” says Peter, because that sounds like too much work. “I don’t mind. Be like a sleepover, when I was a little kid, with my best friend Ned.” Be like a sleepover two months ago with Ned, too, actually, both of them crashing on his futon at 2 AM after playing Minecraft for hours.

“Great,” breathes Harley, and then he starts stripping down, opening a drawer in his dresser and throwing his shirt at the open hamper between the dressers, missing and ignoring it.

Well, that’s a little less comfortable, thinks Peter, but he’s so tired, too. He crosses over to the dresser and pulls out his softest pajama pants and his Computer Repair Hourly Rate t-shirt, so worn and old there’s holes on every seam. He strips as quickly as he can, hopping on one foot to pull the pants up, but he shouldn’t have bothered, because when he turns around, Harley’s hunched under his blankets already, back to Peter.  
  
Peter throws the pillow at the same end as Harley’s head, and fluffs the quilt over the sheets and the light summer blanket already on the bed. It’s cool enough, he thinks, with the window open and the crisp end-of-April breeze floating through over their heads. He turns his back to Harley, too, onto his left side, and almost misses Harley’s whispered, “Sweet dreams, Peter.”

Almost misses it, so he can ignore it, he suspects, but- but he doesn’t want to. “Sleep well, Harley,” he whispers back.

Harley makes a little pleased noise, shifting on his mattress, and then Peter listens to the sounds of the ranch outside, the sound of Harley’s breathing evening out beside him, and lets his eyes drift shut remembering John saying, _Oh, Petey, you’re good no matter where you are. You just give yourself a break._

He remembers him say it over and over again, burning it deep, saving it up in case he needs it again, later. He puts it next to Ben’s voice, saying, _My kid, Peter_ , and Aunt May saying, _We were so lucky he came to us_. He puts it next to the one memory he has of his mother, the smell and the feel of her, her voice humming, and the laughter of his dad on the voicemail, on the old cell phone Ben had kept just for that 30 second playback, in case Peter needed it.

_You just give yourself a break._

He lets his eyes close shut, and he tries to follow John’s directions one more time, and hopes it works.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So, there we go. See you for the second story? 
> 
> PLEASE GO GIVE SOME LOVE FOR THAT MOODBOARD: https://starker-rays.tumblr.com/post/626538789328781312/cowboy-tony-and-his-ranch-hand-peter-in-new-mexico OR CLICK ON IT, I TRIED TO MAKE A HYPERLINK TO IT
> 
> Anyway, for those of you brave enough to comment, let's play a fun game, since you were willing to play along with me and read this. 
> 
> We know that the X-Mansion needs to be filled with a whole load of teenagers and some adults. There's like 60 years of X-men and all the spin-off comics, and MCU has already made it abundantly clear that they'll retcon first-generation Bobby Drake into teenage romance with second-gen Rogue, alongside Jubilee and Shadowcat and... I can keep going. Basically, they already agree that there doesn't have to be ANY RULES about who's what age.
> 
> So, Let's have some fun! Help me fill up the X-Mansion! Who do you want to see as a teenager? Who do you want as a responsible (or irresponsible) adult? 
> 
> Some roles have already been taken, but feel free to call out whatever you want. My muses reserve the right to work with- or not work with- whatever you give me, so don't play if your feelings are going to get hurt. I don't actually control the muses, and I wrestle them enough on my own behalf that I just don't have the energy to wrestle them on your behalf, too.


End file.
